


“You say every woman is the woman of your dreams”

by Jadzia_Lupin



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: All the women Thomas has ever said he was in love with, Childhood, F/M, Love, Past Loves, Past Relationships, Romance, Thomas is a ho, character backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29098632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadzia_Lupin/pseuds/Jadzia_Lupin
Summary: Thomas has fallen in love perhaps too many times.
Relationships: Thomas Thorne/ Original characters
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	“You say every woman is the woman of your dreams”

Thomas met the first girl he would ever fall in love with at the tender age of seven, while climbing a tree in a city park, as he prepared to shift his weight onto the next branch. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice warned from the ground. 

He looked down and saw a girl standing with her arms crossed, staring up at him with a bored expression. 

“It’s going to break.” She said matter-o-factly. 

“I know how to climb a tree!” Thomas hollered down.

The girl shrugged. “Alright then. I’ll laugh when you fall, just so you know.”

Thomas scrunched his face mockingly before pulling himself onto the branch. 

_CRACK_

He tumbled down through the foliage and hit the ground so hard it knocked the wind out of him. As he coughed and tried to stop his stinging body from shaking.

“I tried to warn you.”

Looking up, he could see her stifling a laugh behind her hand. She was his age, brown face dotted with freckles and a halo of bushy curls. Thomas glared at her and brought his legs in front of him. His breeches and the stocking underneath them were torn and his knee skinned and bleeding. 

“Ow...” he covered the wound with his hand and yanked it away when it stung.

“That’s not so bad. Here,” she reached her hand out to help him up.

Still cross, he took it and stood upright, wincing at the movement of the raw flesh.

“Violet Grace,” she announced. 

“Huh?”

“That’s my name. Violet Grace. What’s yours?”

“Uh, Thomas. Thomas Thorne.”

“Lovely to meet you, Thomas. I’m sorry for laughing. That was just phenomenally stupid,” Violet teased him with a cheeky grin that he would eventually grow to love, but at that moment infuriated him.

They were best friends by the time they both left the park that evening, after Violet had offered him some biscuits and led him to where her parents were having a romantic picnic. They let them take the remaining biscuits and they went to sit on the shore of the pond, shoes off with their feet in the water, tossing bits of biscuits to ducks. 

Thomas and Violet had quite a few things in common, it seemed. They both came from wealthy families, they were both the youngest child (him with three older sisters and her with three older brothers), and they both had a tendency towards mischief, as well as a passion for books.

For the next years, they were joined at the hip. Always exchanging books and talking about them, acting out scenes as they played, playing pranks, and creating their own little world within the confines of the Graces’ property. 

It was called Willow Glen, despite the house being on the top of a hill. They went on adventures, pretending to meet magical creatures and go on perilous quests and fight fearsome monsters. Occasionally, Thomas’ cousin, Francis, would join in, but that was only because Thomas’ mother forced him to. Francis was three years older than Thomas and Violet, and not all interested in their “childish” games. 

It wasn’t until they were eleven years old when Thomas fell in love with Violet. As they played, he’d try to come up with some way to voice his feelings. It was odd; talking with her had always been so completely effortless. Probably because these feelings were new and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of them yet, or what they meant. 

But his sisters noticed. They were quick to give advice on courting girls, even though his eldest sister, Minerva, was the only one who’d ever been courted. After they ambushed him, he went to ask for advice from his father, who responded with a laugh and told him he was too young to be courting. Do he decided to wait.

Later that year, Violet became deathly ill. Though Thomas wasn’t able to visit her in person, he passed her books through her mother, who weakly assured him that Violet would be better in no time. 

At about the same time, Thomas’ mothers’ roses began to bloom. One day when he left the house, a new book in hand, he reached out and picked one. Surely he was old enough for courting now, as he would be twelve in three months. 

When he arrived at Grace Manor and Violet’s mother opened the door, he noticed that her eyes were bleary and red and her cheeks streaked with tears. Thomas’ face fell; he may not have been old enough for romance, but he was old enough to know what that meant. Or what it might mean. Good _God_ he hoped he was wrong. But as Mrs. Grace wordlessly bent down to take her into her trembling arms, there was no more doubt. 

After the funeral, he stood above Violet’s grave, sobbing. That was when he composed his first poem, which he never forgot or shared with anyone.

_Oh woe, sweet Violet.  
Rest well, in Willow Glen.  
In that magical land of play,  
Full of wondrous dreams.  
There, we shall meet again,  
When my life has stole away.  
I shall kiss you then, sweet Violet,  
As I wish I could today._

Thomas was different after Violet’s death. He buried himself in his studies and avoided fiction and fantasy, as they reminded him of his best friend. He refused to look out the windows that overlooked any part of the Graces’ property. He became closer with his cousin, who had an interest in natural philosophy. He no longer played childish pranks or snuck out to the garden when he was supposed to be studying. He would never quite stop grieving for Violet, even in death.

Not two years later, he was in love again. Her name was Rachel Abbot and she was one of Minerva’s friends, five years his senior. He’d known her for years, but as puberty descended upon Thomas, he became enamored by her.

She was witty and wise beyond her years and a very clever young woman. The beauty of her mind was matched by her physical beauty. Her golden ringlets glimmered in the sun, her wire spectacles complimented the roundness of her face, and she had the most melodious voice. Thirteen-year-old Thomas would find himself watching her every time she came for tea or just to visit Minerva.

On Rachel’s eighteenth birthday, Thomas went with Minerva to the Abbots’ cottage with gifts. Minerva had bought her a lovely flowery hat and matching gown, which Rachel had apparently stopped to marvel at every time she passed it in the window of a dress shop, sad that she couldn’t afford it. Thomas had decided to give her a book by Aristotle, as well as a romantic poem that he recited in his head several times on the way to the cottage. 

Rachel loved the dress and the book, and said that it was the best birthday she’d ever had. They ate a delicious homemade cake that Rachel’s mother had made, and her sister played lively music on the piano. 

Finally, Thomas announced that he had written her a poem. He stood in front of Rachel, holding her hand tenderly. Minerva buries her face him her hands, embarrassed as Thomas recited. 

The response he’d expected from Rachel was something along the lines of a hug and a kiss, and maybe even a dance. He certainly wasn’t expecting her to burst out laughing as if he were a court jester.

“Wh-what? Why are you laughing?” Thomas asked, confused, his awkward voice breaking in a rather undignified manner throughout. 

“That was _adorable_!” Rachel exclaimed, smiling as if she was looking at a tiny baby.

“A-adorable?” he squeaked. 

“You’re such a sweet boy.”

As Thomas cleared his throat she shifted his weight between his feet, he was suddenly aware of his awkwardly lanky frame, his disproportionately large head, the thin patches of barely-visible hair along his chin. He blushed and cringed at himself.

“Just sit down,” Minerva tugged his sleeve. “Sit down and shut up, _please_.”

He sat down and was silent for the rest of the visit, crushed by the humiliation. He wanted to cry; he’d worked so hard on that poem, only to be laughed at and belittled by the woman he loved. He managed to keep himself from crying until he was alone in his bedroom.

The third time Thomas fell in love was when he himself was eighteen years old.

Ndidi Caldwell was the wife of Sam Caldwell, and the mother of Ruth and Joseph. An African noblewoman who had fallen in love with Mr. Caldwell when traveling to England years ago. She was twenty-eight when Thomas first saw her tending to her beautiful garden across the street from the townhouse Minerva lived in with her husband. As he took tea with his sister and brother-in-law, he took quick glances to admire Mrs. Caldwell. He was glad that their teatimes overlapped with her gardening. 

Caldwell Manor was huge, and surely they had gardeners to take care of all those beautiful flowers and ferns, yet the Lady of the house seemed content to tend to them for every moment she could spare. In fact, once or twice, he saw someone else go into the garden and tend to it, and Mrs. Caldwell would come out and scold them. But most of the time she was tranquil and focused. 

“Please tell me you’re not planning on writing her one of your stupid poems.” Minerva said one day, catching him taking a peek. 

“I wasn’t!” Thomas squeaked. 

“Good.”

At some point, Thomas had the idea to give seed packets as tokens of his affection. Before his weekly tea with Minerva, he would purchase a packet of flower seeds and deliver it to Ndidi by hand, relishing the sensation of her soft hand brushing against his as she took the packet, and her richly accented “thank you,” and her lovely smile that burned itself into his heart. 

Apparently it didn’t initially occur to her that Thomas’ gifts were anything more than just a young man being nice, but after four or five weeks of this, she realized. 

On that sixth week, she didn’t greet him with a smile as he held the packet over the gate. Instead, she gave him a look like a mother who was tired of her child’s antics. She refused to take the seeds.

“You must stop this. It’s highly inappropriate.”

Thomas frowned. 

“Even if I wasn’t married, you’re just a boy. You should be courting girls your own age.”

He stammered, trying to get some sort of thought out. With a sigh, he dropped his gaze to his feet and his arm to his side and stood there a moment before turning and walking across the street to Minerva’s. 

That year, he went off to university, where he met the next woman he fell in love with; the one who inspired him to study literature and become a poet; otherwise he probably would’ve become an architect.

Her name was Ariel Barrett. But he first met her as Robert Barrett, a classmate of his who studied literature herself and had a tendency to come off a bit arrogant. 

Their relationship started out as essentially a competition, some teasing, and even a bit of mild hazing. Their rivalrous banter was never malicious, and got more and more playful as time went on. 

The incident that was the turning point in their relationship was when Thomas’ friends convinced him to steal her journal and read it aloud in the dormitory. He managed to do the first part; it wasn’t difficult, as she kept it under her bed in an empty violin case. But as he read it, he found that she “yearned for womanhood” and other things that would be quite damning to her if they were to get out. He honestly couldn’t stand her but he didn’t want her to be sent to prison or an asylum or killed. He managed to return the journal to its hiding place before she returned to the dorms that night.

After that, Thomas couldn’t help notice certain habits of his rival, like the way he spoke in a pitch higher than what was strictly natural for her, but not so high as to raise any suspicion. Her brown hair was as long as it could possibly be while still being masculine. To be at constant war with one’s own body was deeply poetic. 

Though Ariel continued to tease and haze Thomas, Thomas could no longer bring himself to return the favor; it had been made quite clear to him in his youth that there were certain things a gentleman should never do to a lady, and that included pretty much everything they’d done to each other in the past year. 

Meanwhile, Ariel took this as a sign that she’d won the informal competition between them and stopped these behaviors. 

Thomas could never be sure exactly when he fell for her, only that he fell for her hard. He loved being near her, inhaling her light perfume. They had very passionate debates about literature and social issues as they ate their meals. Her love of the English language rubbed off on him and soon, literature was his focus.

Mealtime debates and friendly conversations turned into studying in the library, often alone, reading and analyzing texts well past midnight. Thomas was glad no one else was around to hear him the first time he uttered the name Ariel had given herself in her journal. 

He was so sleep-deprived when it happened that it took him a minute to notice that she had gone silent and rigid, frozen with fear and a bit of anger. He managed to shake himself back awake. 

“My God, I am so sorry,” he said quickly, “I’m sorry, I-... Henry and Enoch told me to steal your journal to... to embarrass you, but... I read it and...” his words devolved into unintelligible babbling. 

In the dim candlelight, Ariel’s face was stiff and pale, as if she’d suddenly been transformed into a statue. 

“I think that-... I mean,-... it’s just that-... so then-... I-...” Thomas sighed and rubbed his temples before meeting Ariel’s eyes once more. “Ariel,” he said softly, fondly, reaching for her hand, which had clenched so hard the quill she was holding had snapped in half, and taking it in his. 

Her eyes flicked to his hand holding hers, still very tense.

“Ariel, I... I see you.” With his free hand, Thomas cupped her cheek, smiling. “I see you, and you’re beautiful.”

Ariel still couldn’t seem to find her voice, but a single tear slid down her cheek. 

“I’m sorry I read your journal. That was wrong, plain and simple. I promise I haven’t touched it since, and never will.”

“Thorne,...” Ariel’s voice was raspy and very quiet.

“I won’t tell anyone. I swear it.”

“I know you won’t,” she replied weakly. 

“I love you,” Thomas pulled himself closer to her so their shoulders were touching. 

The broken quill clattered onto the table as Ariel released it to wrap her arms around his neck, unreadable tears now streaming down her bright pink face as she closed the distance between them and their lips met.

It wasn’t exactly how Thomas had imagined his first kiss going, and it was very different than practicing on his pillow, but it was the most wonderful experience he’d ever had. It was passionate and sweet as they explored each other’s mouths, felt each other’s heartbeats, merged into one very satisfied being. They were out of breath when they finally broke apart, grinning stupidly.

“That was... _wow_!” Thomas said. 

“Did I _actually_ render you speechless?” Ariel cocked an eyebrow with a chuckle. 

“I rendered _you_ speechless first.”

Ariel scoffed, “that doesn’t count!”

“How very convenient for you,” Thomas smirked, taking her hands into his, then kissing them both. 

She rolled her eyes and replied, “well you should really see a dentist about that cracked tooth.”

Thomas furrowed his brows. “Cracked tooth? What are you talking about?”

Ariel lifted her hand and gently tapped a finger against Thomas’ cheek, where his lower left molars were. “Around there somewhere.”

He felt the teeth with his tongue and raised an eyebrow when he felt a shallow but still obvious crack in one of his teeth. “What?”

“That’s what happens when you don’t take care of your teeth.”

“Oh shut up!”

“Make me,” Ariel smirked. Then they both leaned in for another kiss.

They had to keep their relationship a secret, of course. In some ways, that added to the appeal. The fact that they were already friends made it easier to not rouse suspicions. 

Ariel would beam brightly every time Thomas used her chosen name. He told her she was beautiful every day, sometimes a few dozen times. He meant it. She was radiant and brilliant and perfect to him in every way. 

They both wished they could’ve been together longer. Forever would’ve been best. 

As their time at university came to a close, Ariel told him of her plans to start her new life in America, an ocean away from anyone who could destroy her for who she was. Thomas’ stomach wrung itself into a rather painful knot as he choked back tears.

They shared one last kiss in the empty dormitory before she walked out of the room and out of his life. He never heard from her again, nor did he ever learn what became of her. 

The next several years was a blur of brief courtships that almost always ended with both of them losing passion with the relationship and parting ways. 

He was 27 when his parents died. Lost at sea on some expedition his father had been so determined to be on. Thomas lived alone in the Thorne Estate, which suddenly felt cold and cavernous and unfamiliar. Even with the busy curt streets just a short walk away, he felt isolated. His sisters had all gone and married, and Francis was studying in France and wouldn’t return for another year. 

Thomas soon took to staying in Minerva’s house with her husband and their two sons, Sam and Warren. The boys adored their Uncle Thomas, especially when he played Pirate with them. 

Minerva demanded why he wouldn’t just find a wife already; he wasn’t getting any younger and women weren’t exactly flocking around him. He assured her that he’d find someone and marry her as soon as he could. 

And he did find someone. He met Isabelle and fell in love for the last time in his life. 

The year that they were together was the happiest year of his entire existence. She played the most beautiful music on the piano and had a very keen sense of fashion. Isabelle was also a bit of a perfectionist and had a tendency to organize and reorganize Thomas’ things. 

Though she didn’t live in Minerva’s house, she was around often enough for the boys to start calling her “Auntie Isabelle.”

“She’s not your Auntie yet, Warren.”

“But she will be. Once you marry her and she moves in with us.”

Thomas chuckled. “Yes, I suppose she will.”

Unfortunately, Thomas could only hope to marry her, as her father didn’t approve of the match.

At the age of thirty-one, Thomas Thorne died. He died thinking that Isabelle didn’t love him, heartbroken and alone, bleeding out against a tree, watching the world blur and fade until he woke up as a ghost, four strangers looking down at him. 

Two centuries later, he would realize just how obvious it had been that Francis had betrayed him, especially in the weeks following his death. 

As he watched his beloved Isabelle grieve as, unbeknownst to her, he grieved alongside her, he never noticed just how little Francis cared. Thomas had always thought that Isabelle’s tears were from shock and trauma, which they probably were, at least partially, and not from heartbreak. 

Before his body had been taken away, while it was laying on the stretcher, Francis had come in. Thomas had been so transfixed and shaken by the sight of his own corpse, that he barely registered Francis’ hand reaching into Thomas’ waistcoat, then tossing something into the fire behind them. 

Thomas was heartbroken when Francis and Isabelle courted each other, and eventually married, but he was also glad that she was happy.

He overheard that the couple were living at Thorne Manor. They brought their children around often to visit Lord and Lady Higham. Five lovely children; three sons and two daughters. All of them had Isabelle’s eyes and musical talent. The common room was alive with beautiful music whenever the family was there. Isabelle had never looked happier than when she was with Francis and the children. Thomas’ heart sank and he often wept. 

Francis and Isabelle’s eldest son, Thomas Button, inherited the house when his grandfather died; him and his wife, Lady Anna, lived there for nearly fifty years. Thomas Button was a very old man when he arranged the marriage of his oldest grandson, George. 

It was 1881, and young George was nineteen years old and quite reluctant when it came to marriage. He often said it was a waste of time and he had better things to do. But eventually he was able to be convinced to marry Lady Frances Tracey, the daughter of a good friend of Thomas Button’s. 

Once married, George and his new wife lived in Button House with his elderly grandparents; his parents had died years before. 

When Thomas Thorne first saw Lady Frances, he felt a familiar flutter in his chest as he fell in love with her. She married George when she was only eighteen, and was very excited. She had an intense appreciation of life and was quite the romantic spirit, always giving nice gifts to her husband and dancing with him whenever she felt like. She was so beautiful and stubborn and honestly a bit scary at times. She was a lot like Isabelle in the way she ran her household; everything had to be perfect and pristine and neatly organized according to her liking. 

It made Thomas angry to see that George didn’t appreciate her. If he were alive, he would’ve certainly challenged him for her hand, then he would’ve given her the love she deserved. 

After a lot of begging, Frances finally convinced George to have a baby; in August of 1887, she gave birth to their son, William. However, by the next year, they had noticed that there was something wrong with the baby; he was far too small, he could barely crawl let alone stand or walk, and he hadn’t begun speaking. By age five, William still hadn’t spoken, and he couldn’t stand up. He was mentally very slow and not smart enough for school. 

Frances still loved him and doted on him, as a mother should, but George wasn’t happy. The boy would never be able to live on his own or pass on the family name. So this time, _he_ insisted they have another baby. 

Caroline was born in 1893, and Victor in 1894. Having finally had a viable heir, George was satisfied and never touched Frances again. 

Through all of this, Thomas continued to be angry at George and write poems about Frances, wishing he could hold her and wipe her tears away. 

The other ghosts usually ignored him because of this; apparently it was “annoying.” Though Kitty never thought that; she actually enjoyed hearing his poems. It was nice to have someone who would listen to him. 

Thomas’ rage towards George reaches dangerous levels when he began having an affair. It didn’t matter that George was having an affair with a man; it was that he had turned his back on his wife who loved him dearly. George was lucky Thomas wasn’t alive. 

When George murdered Frances, Thomas’ emotions became very jumbled. And when she stayed, that fluttery feeling in his chest was suddenly gone without any explanation. 

The day before, when he looked at her, he’d wanted so desperately to dance with her and sit by the fire with her and William, who was now grown but still very slow and crippled, and tell him stories as she combed his hair. But now that she was standing in front of him, fully aware of his existence, he didn’t feel anything other than grief and sympathy. 

They were friends. That’s it. From that point on, Thomas has no romantic feelings for her. 

The ghosts started calling her Fanny, mostly because Kitty had pointed out, “that way your name rhymes with mine and Mary’s!” And also because Robin found “Frances” hard to pronounce properly. 

Victor and his wife, Emma, occupied Button House after the First World War, along with William. Emma was quite lovely. She had volunteered as a nurse during the war and continued to practice. She had the kind of smile that instantly makes one feel better and forget their problems for a moment. That sweetness of her voice often echoed in Thomas’ ears late at night. Her eyes were brown and soft, and she never covered up her freckles. 

When her daughter, Heather, was born, that baby became the center of her world. She was a wonderful mother who taught the girl well. 

Emma was the kind of person who Thomas wished he could’ve grown old with; compassionate, sweet, optimistic, always ready to drop everything and come to her loved ones’ aid. 

Pat had been dead almost a year when Emma died. The ghosts were all much closer with each other now and the others all knew how Thomas had felt about Lady Emma. Regardless of if they thought his feelings towards her were romantic, creepy, or otherwise, they all gave him space while he grieved. 

He wasn’t sure exactly when he started falling in love with Kitty, but by the start of the new millennium, he was fully captivated by her. Her unmatched kindness and optimism, her cheerful demeanor that made him feel like he was alive again, that laugh and the sensation of being enveloped in her hugs. The way she giggled whenever he accidentally stepped on her feet as she taught him Georgian styles of dancing. They could talk for hours without running out of things to talk about. Even though the garden was a dilapidated mess by now, she maintained that it was just as beautiful as it had been during her lifetime. 

Maybe if he’d been a bit braver he would’ve told her how he felt. 

Loving a fellow ghost was dangerous business; regardless of how it ended up, they’d be stuck together for God only knows how long. If he told her and she didn’t feel the same way, it would be very awkward between them, even more so if she did feel the same way and it ended badly, or if it ended at all. Perhaps his concerns were simply the product of overthinking, but regardless, their relationship was perfect as it was, as friends; why risk it?

Maybe he was still partially in love with Kitty when he fell for Alison, but that was more or less pushed aside as he pined for Alison. 

For the first time in his existence, he couldn’t find the words to describe his feelings. Alison was... Alison. He would never admit it to anyone, but sometimes he wished he could possess Mike’s body, just for a few minutes, so he could kiss her.

“How many times do I have to tell you this before you get it through your thick skull?” Alison was very annoyed with him after he recited a poem he wrote for her while she ate her cereal. Mike looked up, startled, as Alison continued to rant at, what looked like to him, an empty space. “I’m with _Mike_! And even if I wasn’t, _this_ would _never_ happen! Even if you were alive! So _please_ stop this!”

Thomas hung his head and sulked back through the wall. 

Alison found him in his sighing spot later. 

“Um, hey, Thomas,” she said. 

“Come to win be back, have you?” He replied dramatically, not looking away from the window. 

Alison gave an exasperated sigh that was almost certainly accompanied by an eye roll. “I just wanted to apologize for snapping at you earlier. I was annoyed and I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I’m sorry.”

Thomas looked at her hopefully. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

She rolled her eyes and sat down next to him. “No, Thomas. I don’t like you like that and I never will. I’m sorry to burst your bubble, mate, but we’re just friends. That’s it. If I’m being honest, I see you more as a little brother.”

With a sigh, he looked down at his hands. “Friends. Yes, of course. That’s fine.” He met her eyes again. “If it is my destiny to be confined to friendship with you, I suppose I can live with that. Well, you know what I mean.”

“Excellent.” Alison smiled and patted the seat between them in lieu of him and left. 

Over the years, Thomas and the other ghosts watched Mike and Alison live their lives, sometimes weighing in and always considered part of the family. 

They had a little boy, Graham, who could see the ghosts until he was one and a half. Everything changed when he was born; the Captain made up a whole new schedule that incorporated the baby. 

Even after he couldn’t see them, he was still aware of them, of course, and learned Morse Code so he could communicate with them through Robin or sometimes through Julian. 

When he started school, at least one of the ghosts, usually the Captain, would walk with him to the bus stop at the end of the drive, and wait there until the bus arrived and he was off to school. 

After school he’d sit at the table with Robin, doing the day’s crossword puzzle with a table lamp beside them for communication. Often times Alison would join in so that she could spend time with her son and also Robin didn’t have to push himself too much. 

Alison and Mike weren’t perfect parents, but they tried their best. They were always there for Graham, and he never doubted that he was loved. They liked to go camping together in the woods, just the three of them. Though the ghosts would sometimes pop in. Pat would suggest activities he thought they’d enjoy. Kitty would want to join in for a bit. The Captain would stand guard by their tent even though Alison told him several times that it wasn’t necessary. 

Thomas moves on before Graham had grown up. Everyone was overjoyed. Pat and Kitty buried him in a group hug as he glowed golden and floated. After a lengthy round of very emotional goodbyes, he was gone. 

Thomas woke up in a garden. He was laying down on the softest grass he’d ever felt and the lovely scent of spring flowers filled the air. Birds twitted and sang as they danced through the sky. He shut his eyes and sighed; he could’ve stayed there forever. 

A butterfly suddenly landed on his nose and he sat up. It took off from his face but floated around his head. He looked down and saw that he was still wearing the clothes he died in, but his wound was completely gone. He pressed his fingers where it had been and felt no pain. The blood was gone, as was the hole in his clothes. He chuckled and looked back up. 

The garden was bright and lively with colorful flowers and perfectly clipped hedges. There didn’t seem to be anyone else there. He stood up and looked around. The garden stretched as far as he could see, and there were some grand mountains in the distance. He could faintly hear the rushing of a stream. 

“Hello?” He called out as he walked away from the spot he woke up in. As he walked, he felt flowers and ferns brush against him, bending as he made contact. 

“Thomas?” A voice called back from very far away. So far that he didn’t recognize it. He moved towards it. 

“Hello! I’m here! Wherever here is.” He walked around a tall hedge and saw an elderly woman standing beside an outdoor table. She wore Victorian clothing and her hair was gray, her face wrinkled, but Thomas would recognize that face anywhere. 

“Isabelle?” He gasped. 

“Oh, Thomas!” Isabelle leapt forward and embraced him. “Oh I’m so happy you’re here!” They broke apart and she took his hands in hers. “I know what happened,” she said quietly. “When I died, I learned what Francis did. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have trusted him.” Tears in her eyes, she leaned against his chest. He embraced her. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong. There was no way you could’ve known.”

They stood there for what seemed like an eternity, holding each other. They were interrupt by the voice of Thomas’ middle sister, Guinevere.

“Forget about us already, have you?”

He looked up to see his sisters, who were all old women, and his parents. 

“Typical.” His youngest older sister, Sarah, crossed her arms with a smirk. 

Thomas released Isabelle and ran to his family, who all buried him in a hug as he wept with happiness. 

When they broke apart, his father put his hands on Thomas’ shoulders and smiled sincerely. “I’m proud of you, son. You held yourself together admirably down there.”

“Wait you saw me? At Button House?”

“Of course we did,” Guinevere teased with a smirk, “Mister Mistletoe.”

Thomas blushed. “Oh no.”

Guinevere leaned in close and whispered, “we have 211 extra years worth of embarrassing moments to use against you now.”

“I see you’re as evil as always,” Thomas narrowed his eyes at his mischievous sister. 

“Don’t worry, Bug,” Minerva spoke up, side-eying Guinevere, “she won’t be doing anything of the sort.”

“Well at least not for a month. After that, I can’t make any promises.” 

Suddenly a much younger voice spoke from behind them. “However _I_ made no such promises.” Violet stepped out from behind the Thornes. “Lovely to see you again, Old Man.”

Thomas smiles. “Violet!”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Well didn’t you say you were going to kiss me?”

He blushed even more and was sure he looked like a tomato. “Uh...” He awkwardly leaned over to the young girl and kissed her on the forehead, then stood back up straight. 

Violet and his sisters and even Isabelle burst out laughing. 

“Hey!”

Isabelle placed s hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, Thomas.”

“Come along, let’s all go have supper. The cook’s made your favorite, Tommy.”

The eight of them walked off into the afterlife.


End file.
